


Alchemy of Winter

by marcasite



Series: The Chemistry of Us [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Did I Mention Angst?, F/M, Kissing, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 20:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3950242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcasite/pseuds/marcasite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beside her, the Doctor is leaning against the counter. She sees him as if through glass, straight through and it’s startling. The sound of the Tardis is light, making the entire room seem almost too empty, too stark. It shouldn't feel unfamiliar. She’s been  here before. There’s never a real difference and oddly, she's more comfortable here at night. It’s another quirk, new and old.<br/>She should go. She doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alchemy of Winter

He stands in the doorway of the kitchen in the Tardis, staring. 

“I thought you were reading," she says finally. He shrugs and steps into the room, pulling a chair from the counter out.

“Something like that.”

His shoulders are rigid, but the circles under his eyes are familiar. She’s been back (on and off) for almost a month, at least, and inside, there is the start of a storm brewing. She should know, it’s been brewing this whole time.

"Right."

Her mouth is tight and she shifts, resettling on her chair. It’s been barely an hour since she settled down with a cup of tea. The day is still ringing in her ears, a busy day; work and kids, dishes and dullness as he once said to her. She doesn't mind. But this room has turned into a sanctuary and lately, it's been another place to hide. 

But the Doctor, he sits next to her at the counter without asking. She looks away, unwilling to relax. There’s a grunt, from him, and she shifts her legs into a cross underneath her. Her hands drop to her knees.

"You're avoiding me," he says.

"I'm tired," she lies.

Her fingers uncurl over her knees, running idly over the fabric of her oversize jumper. Next to her, there is a window is opening to a lazy show of stars and color. She still finds it brilliant.

“That’s an excuse,” his voice is dry. “I thought you didn't do excuses anymore.”

His tongue drawls over and she shivers a little, looking back up at him. She shrugs, to feign nonchalance, and bites back her curiosity. 

“It’s late.”

“It’s always late.”

The Doctor is baiting her and she is baiting him, completely unsure as to why (is that so). Her memories come as a calendar, of rumors and answers that she hasn't exactly given herself time to process. She knows that they should talk about last Christmas, when she carelessly ran away with him. Before reality came crashing back to her, unwanted. Of course she was going to travel with him but she still needed to make sure she maintained her life on Earth. She remembers the way his face twisted in surprise, _I just thought…that you would stay here._

_On the Tardis? You know I can’t but I still want to travel with you, to be with you. I thought you understood that?_ She sees the openness in his eyes shutter and feels him close himself from her.

She should have known.

She doesn’t know what to expect. Of course, she knew he'd go back to his reserved self, all the headway they had made seemed to vanish with her words. And in some ways, she thinks, he probably knew that she'd never stay. It was their own way of being fair, as if it were a habit. 

There’s a sigh lined against her mouth. Her throat is tight. He was pushing. He pushed the old way. If she weren't so tired, she would find that funny. She remembers why she doesn't miss it. The Doctor doesn't change. 

"Clara?"

Beside her, the Doctor is leaning against the counter. She sees him as if through glass, straight through and it’s startling. The sound of the Tardis is light, making the entire room seem almost too empty, too stark. It shouldn't feel unfamiliar. She’s been here before. There’s never a real difference and oddly, she's more comfortable here at night. It’s another quirk, new and old.

She should go. She doesn't.

Turning, she folds her arms together, the gesture defensive. Her arms feel stiff though and there are goosebumps writing themselves into her arms, picking at her skin. There’s no break for her today, apparently. 

"Can’t sleep," she mutters, when he turns to stare. "You can’t either? Or are you here to offer some sage piece of wisdom that you've been dying to throw at me."

His lips curl into a smile at the thought. “I will always have some sage piece of wisdom to throw at you. That’s not going to change. Why can’t you sleep?”

She smiles, eyes sparkling over the fib. “Just thinking about where we are going next?” 

She’s lying, that's twice now. She doesn't want too, swore she never would again. Not to him. He's staring at her and she can really taste the lie and it’s bitter. She thinks she sees a little bit of concern. But then again, she thinks she sees a lot of things. 

"No, that’s not true. I was thinking about us."

There’s a funny smile that strikes across his mouth, half-affectionate and something else. She doesn't bother to read it. She doesn't trust him just this moment. Not now, right now and when she's close to being vulnerable. Anything is costly around him, too costly. Learn once, burn once, and keep it to heart. Maybe, her expectations are carrying some of him.

The Doctor leans over, closer and peers down. She’s defiant, as always, craning her neck up and staring back. Her eyes are hard, heavy, and she can feel the tension buzzing around them and straight into a headache. She’s got a lot to say, but it's never been the right moment to say it. The energy's gone. She just wants to get back to her sense of privacy, to do this under the radar.

"Clara, don’t worry about us."

He says it quietly. Her fingers curl around her cup, stroking the ceramic absent-mindedly.

"Aren’t you worried about us?"

He shrugs. "No."

And what does that mean? Really, she thinks. What does that mean? There's no particular tone or shift in tone that he gives her, the sound of his voice breaking in half a cough. It makes it awkward and it annoys her, just annoyed with him all around. 

“Ugh, never mind.” She fights to keep her irritation out of her voice. It’s a failure.

“Why do insist there is something wrong when nothing is wrong?”

“I dunno? Maybe because at Christmas I thought that things had changed, that we were going to be good and it’s…” She trails off, she doesn't want to mention the times she extended her hand and had it been ignored. The times she reached up to hug him after a particular moment and he stilled, moving just out of reach.

“Yes, yes. I thought things had changed as well.”

“Meaning?”

But he doesn’t respond, refuses to look at her.

His hand moves then, over his leg as if he is nervous about something. She's fascinated by his fingers and the way they sort of play over the dark material of his trousers, along the arch of his leg and then, as if to hide, they tuck briefly behind the crook of his knee. He's repetitive and that's comforting to her, for whatever reason, as if there's something, even small, that she still knows about him. 

"I thought things would change as well," he repeats absently. His hand pulls away from his leg and then drops over her arm. Without thinking, she relaxes, focused and confused, as he catches her.

His fingers trail up to her shoulder, grazing her skin, and then they walk back down her arm, over the small nook of her elbow, and down to her wrist. They stop at the base of her palm and she stares, at his hand and then hers, pulling her hand back. But he catches it, his fingers wrapping around her hand.

His mouth shifts, quietly curling and then fading. There’s a brush of amusement that nearly makes her blush. She feel her skin begin to warm. It’s a little bit of annoyance and the frustration is merely happy to hang over her head. She doesn't know what to do.  
She wants to talk to him, tell him how she really feels. But maybe that moment has come and gone. Left at the same time she told him she was still a part-time companion. Maybe he felt that she was implying that she was a part-time friend as well. She doesn't want to press him but wonders if they will ever really just say what they mean.

"I should go."

She says it to mean it, shaking her head. She doesn't lean back. She is still planted, firm beside him, lingering too long. It keeps her within reach, not that she means to be in reach, or that it matters at all. 

His hand stretches forward.

She forgets to swallow when his fingers ghost along her cheeks, spread calmly over her skin. She’s sure he can feel her flush and already, she shows her vulnerability. She wants to tell him that it's easier to be annoyed with him, that he needs to let her be annoyed with him. Disappointed, even, at some of the things that they have not said to each other. She’s not surprised either, which, in theory, makes this worse.

But she feels his fingers move into her hair, tangle briefly and then tuck it behind her ear. She feels herself still and she loses to something between curiosity and ease, familiar and too familiar. His thumb brushes along her jaw too, over her chin, and then settles across her mouth. Her heart starts to beat faster, crawling against her chest and walking into her throat. She can count - one, two, one, two - but loses to the way he's looking at her, waiting for her to do something.

"I - " he starts, but stops. She’s too aware of his fingers over her skin and mouth, still watching as he leans closer. He breathes. "I should go too."

It's almost ironic, the two of them. 

He closes the distance and kisses her.

He kisses her, but then doesn't kiss her. His mouth doesn’t move over hers, his thumb drawing away as her lips part only slightly. She sighs against his lips, almost tastes him, waiting for herself to let it happen. His other hand starts over her hip, flattens against the material of her jumper, and she's aware that this is, in fact, happening. There's awareness then, slipping forward; it doesn't become a spectacle, merely an assertion. He’s kissing her. She’s tired. She should go to bed. Alone.

Her mouth opens wider against his. It becomes a slow kiss and she lets her tongue slip forward, sliding over his lip and into his mouth. It brushes against the rim of his teeth and then further, setting over his tongue. She tastes him. She really tastes him. It's not simply a dream. He's been in his scotch. Only a little, since it's faint. The fingers at her hip pull and pluck at her jumper, he’s looking for skin. She lets her own hand lower and rest against his chest, ready to push but only as a reassurance. It isn't supposed to happen. Not here, not now. Not yet.

She keeps kissing him though. Her lips are wet, warm and steady. It’s a force of an agreement and his hand leaves her hip for her hair. The hesitations, the shifts - it only serves to make this something else, something real for both of them. She feels his fingers bury themselves in her hair, knotting and pulling strands away from behind her ear. His teeth tug gently at her lip and then he covers her mouth with his again. He’s furious, in the second moment, cruel as his hips jut forward and she's thinking what she's not supposed to be thinking. Things are unresolved. They are not resolved. 

She likes the taste of him. This could be good. It’s going to end so wrong. Clara pulls back first.

Her breathing slips, heavy, and she's a little wide-eyed as she stares at him. She’s supposed to leave. There was a real chaos swirling in there somewhere. She knew it. She thinks he does too.

Leaning back, she runs a hand through her hair. Her fingers are curled, pulling away the memory of his. It’s still there, will probably never leave. Her skin feels like its burning. Her lips are too wet, warm with the memory of his mouth. She won't even let herself think about it, how he knew and didn't know and how she just liked it. She’s supposed to be in her room. Alone.

“We’ll figure it out, Clara. In the end…” He watches her as he allows the sentence to trail off. 

The kitchen seems darker than before. Her eyes close briefly. She tries to compose herself and then ignores it, her fingers moving to her mouth. She touches them briefly, standing up and moving away from him. 

“Goodnight, Doctor.” 

She feels the weight of his gaze on her back as she walks away. She knows she’s a coward but things got complicated rather quickly and she is not sure she’s ready for what lays ahead. But something was changing, the truth of the that is clear.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I can't let my babies get there and stay there. They love each other, they just have to work through the kinks. And I figure I would let all you amazing authors write all the amazing fluff and happy whouffaldi for me!  
> Kara, thank you for your thoughts on this!


End file.
